


Truth in Jealousy

by lodessa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy, Feelings Realization, First Time, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 20:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodessa/pseuds/lodessa
Summary: Daenerys finds herself far more affected by potential competition for Ser Jorah's heart than she would have expected.





	Truth in Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> All my love and thanks to [clarasimone](https://clarasimone.tumblr.com) for betaing this!
> 
> This fic exists in a canon divergent timeline for season 8, wherein things work out better for the Dragon Queen (and her bear).
> 
> **Written to the following prompt by a Tumblr anon:**
> 
> _I wish you would write a fic where Dany sees another woman flirting with Jorah and she gets all jealous and realizes that the reason for that is because her bear is the one she wants in all ways._
> 
> I immediately had a notion about which woman would be most likely to generate such a reaction, but I had to double check by asking my husband his thoughts (he also thought Sansa).

Sansa Stark is beautiful. Daenerys cannot not deny it. Her red hair contrasts with her dewy cream skin and her eyes are a brilliant blue. She is tall and statuesque. She is ladylike and quick witted.

Daenerys suspects that Tyrion is in love with Sansa, or at least would be if he thought it allowed. Theon Greyjoy... clearly. Initially, she’d suspected that Lady Stark might have been the Kingslayer’s motivation in coming north, though it is clear now another lady is the reason he is here. She even wonders, at times, if Jon wouldn’t have rather be Sansa’s lover than her brother. 

So perhaps she already has some resentment when it comes to the Lady of Winterfell, but it all comes to a boiling point one evening at dinner. 

Sansa seems in good spirits, and the general conversation has turned to recalling some now dead Northern nobles, which is impossible for Daenerys to follow. She tries not to mind, feeling shut out. She knows it is unintentional. 

But then Jorah chuckles at some comment Sansa makes about one of the Manderlys and proceeds to do an impression that Daenerys has no way of knowing the quality of, only that Sansa giggles and reaches across the table, putting her hand on Jorah’s arm and smiling prettily at him. 

Daenerys has a suddenly intense urge to strike her. 

“You are too generous, my lady,” Jorah again replies with appropriate modesty, but Daenerys can’t help thinking about how he counseled her to make peace with Sansa, about how he told her that home was the thing he prayed for all those years ago and the North is that home.

The Mormonts have been loyal to House Stark for hundreds of years. Jorah himself fought two wars for them, one against her own family 

_He’s mine,_ she hisses inwardly. _After everything, I shall not lose him to her._

But why should Jorah not look at the lovely Lady of Winterfell and pleasure in her rare smiles, which she now seems to be bestowing on him? What grounds does she have to expect him to ignore such a valuable possible connection, one that could only serve to aid Daenerys’ own cause?

 _He said he loved me,_ she thinks, _He said he’d always love me._

And yet, plenty of men carry torches for women out of their reach, while wedding and bedding someone else.

 _That’s not Jorah,_ she tells herself. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering her, the idea that Sansa could seduce away his loyalty, that he’s never known how to commit himself in half measures. 

And yet that explanation tastes false as she thinks it.

Either way, she can’t stand sitting there, as Sansa asks Jorah to tell her about what her parents were like, back when they were young, and Jorah obliges, though he seems to glance over at Daenerys for a moment, looking almost guilty. 

If she stays here much, she is going to cause a scene, so she stands and whirls around towards the exist, using all of her control not to run out of the room, or steal a glance back.

She makes it to her room, manages to pour herself a large glass of wine, but the silence and the wine do little to calm her mind. She images them down there, wonders if anyone even noticed her departure. Most likely none of them would care.

 _Jorah would care, surely,_ she thinks with an urgency she cannot restrain. He always has watched her closely, known her moods at times better than she does herself. He has to have noticed. He has to be concerned. 

_Why do I feel so desperate on this point?_ she wonders, but it is hard to think rationally with the way her thoughts and feelings are threatening to overwhelm her.

She imagines them, down there laughing. She can see Sansa’s smile and Jorah’s. Her mind insists on going further, conjuring images of pure imagination: Jorah with his hands in Sansa’s long red hair. Sansa, with her hands on Jorah’s face. Jorah’s beard leaving red splotches on Sansa’s pale skin as he kisses her throat. 

Daenerys squeezes her eyes shut, trying to stop her traitorous mind, but her thoughts only spiral further: The hot press of Jorah’s mouth as he kisses Sansa with tenderness and passion. Jorah’s warm voice whispering sweet nothings into Sansa’s ear as he touches her between her thighs. 

Daenerys can almost feel the ghost of his touch on her own body, cupping her breasts, licking her skin, pressing up inside of her. She lets out a choked sound of frustration, body and mind swirling with messages she is no longer sure she wants to sort out the import of.

It’s not Sansa’s mouth she’s imagining kisses Jorah’s shoulder anymore. It’s not Sansa’s thighs she sees Jorah nipping at lightly. The hair he’s brushing gently aside before burying his face between them is silver not red. Daenerys realizes that’s she’s imagining Jorah having her, imagining herself having Jorah in the most primal of ways… and an anguished stab of longing runs through her.

 _I’m jealous,_ she discovers. The very idea of Sansa being interested in him has set her into a jealous rage, fueled by desire. _Gods... I want him. I want him in ways I never thought I could._

No sooner has she admitted this much to herself than there is a knock at the door. She considers telling whoever it is to go away, but in her heart she knows (or hopes) who it will be, and she has sent him away too many times.

“Come in,” she calls, her heart in her throat, not sure if she is more afraid it will not be him or unsure about how to act if it is. Only once has she felt so conflicted when it comes to him before.

“Khaleesi,” he says, as he enters the room, a title that always feels like more than that coming from him. She finds herself thinking about whether he would continue to call her Khaleesi while making love to her, in the most intimate of moments. 

The fire in the room has gone low and casts light unevenly, his face is half shadowed. She knows it anyway, as well as her own after all these years.

“What is it, Ser Jorah?” she says, instinctively retreating back into her more imperious, queenly, facade. 

“You left the feast rather abruptly. I thought... I wondered if you might be displeased,” his words are cautious, measured. He stops a few feet from her, near enough that he can speak quietly, but not so close as to be inappropriate.

“Why should I be displeased?” she replies, but it comes out angry and bitter sounding.

“I am unsure,” he says, stepping slightly closer, “But I have known you too long to not notice when you are so.”

“That is quite the presumption, Ser,” she snaps, though she would have expected to be reassured by his close observation of her mood, by his choice to come after her full of concern.

“Have I angered you, Your Grace?” he asks, bowing his head and looking remorseful, and she knows she is snapping at him for no explicable reason. “If I have given you cause for offense or disappointment, let me make it right.”

She thinks she could make him swear himself to her anew. He would make any vow she asked, she has faith, but none of that would answer the question eating away at her.

“Tell me, Ser Jorah, what would you do if I arranged a marriage for you?” she asks, unsure exactly of her destination as she turns the conversation abruptly.

“What do you mean?” he seems genuinely confused.

“Would you take a wife at my pleasure, Ser?” she presses, seeking a more definitive reaction.

“I have promised to obey your commands,” he says quietly, without enjoyment.

“So if I decreed that you were to marry Sansa Stark…” 

She does her best to say it casually, as if she is merely suggesting a name at random. The truth is that she has to know. She has to know his reaction, whether he would jump at such a chance.  
“I should hardly think Lady Stark would be inclined to agree,” he deflects.

“I’m not asking about Lady Stark’s willingness to heed my will. I’m asking about yours,” she insists, frustrated by his refusal to come out and indicate a preference. His dutifulness isn’t what she wants, she realizes, not now.

“If that was your will, I should comply,” he swallows. 

“Would you be pleased,” she demands, “with such a match?”

“It would be more than generous.” Once again, he doesn’t actually answer her question about his feelings. 

“That,” she points out, “is not what I asked.”

“No,” he admits, “Though she is the most eligible lady in Westeros, it would not please me for you to arrange such a match.”

“Why?” she demands, heart still in her chest, though she thinks his answer ought to have brought relief.

He pauses for a moment, scrunching his brow noticeably as he studies her expression, before finally answering, “My heart lies elsewhere, as it always will.” 

“And where does it lie, Ser Jorah?” she inquires, needing him to say what she had hoped he would not before.

“You know,” he barely whispers. 

She perceives now that he is perhaps concerned that such an utterance would create further space between them. _He cannot know,_ she recognizes. How could he understand her sudden change of heart when she does not understand it fully herself, only that she longs to hear him tell her that he loves her, not as a parting revelation but as something she can hold onto, can indulge in. 

“I would hear it, all the same,” she invites and sees him swallow and move to moisten his lips with his tongue. 

“With you,” he stares into her eyes and says finally without hesitation, “My heart will always be yours.” 

“Show me,” he tells him. 

“Khaleesi?” He seems taken aback by this, more so than anything she has said previously.

“If you truly love me still, my bear, then I would have you prove as much to me.”

“How…” 

“How does any man show a woman he loves her?” she retorts, finding his hesitation endearing and frustrating at the same time.

 _Kiss me,_ she thinks, _Kiss me until we’re both breathless, take me into your arms and let me feel your passion stirring for me._

“You are not a woman to be won with words, Khaleesi, no matter how sweet,” he remarks, as though he still cannot believe his ears, as though he thinks she is playing some sort of trick on him. He moves closer cutting the distance between them in half.

“So don’t use words then,” she tells him plainly as she mirrors his movement towards her, bringing them close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating off his body, impatience growing. “You are not some inexperienced youth, Ser. Surely you can do better than words.”

He stares at her, long and hard, and she feels the heat in those piercing blue eyes of his, and the turmoil. He reaches out at last, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek and then the pad of his thumb across her lips. There’s something about that touch, so light it almost doesn’t exist, that makes her quake in a way the passionate grip of others cannot. 

“Khaleesi,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek ever so gently, as he steps closer, his other hand hovering not quite touching her side, where the waist curves outward towards her breast.

It feels like he’s going to kiss her, as he tilts her face up towards his own, eyes still locked on hers. He doesn’t though, standing there barely touching her, so close she can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Jorah,” she murmurs, feeling herself pulled closer to him by some invisible force.

“There are no other women as far as I am concerned,” he almost growls, inches her mouth, “Only you. Send me on whatever impossible quest you wish to prove my devotion, I will always come back.”

“I already did,” she realizes, “more than once. I do not wish to send you away again.”

“What do you want then?” he breathes, so close she can feel the exhale on her lips and yet still not actually making contact. 

“You,” she reveals to him unequivocally, “I want you.” 

She’s not sure, ultimately, whether he actually kisses her first or she kisses him, all she knows is that she’s gripping the front of his tunic and he’s captured her waist with his hands now and what she had been imagining earlier was nothing compared to the reality.

Daenerys has never been kissed like this, so sweet and yet decisive. It is an ends unto itself and at the same time promises so much for what’s to come.

But then Jorah pulls away, gaze dropping bashfully to the ground as if she had pushed him away instead of drawing him closer. She doesn’t know how to respond, how to overcome this hesitation on his part, when she’s already told him she desires him.

“Jorah,” she says, calling his eyes back to her. She reaches out and caresses the side of his face, dragging her fingertips through the prickliness of his beard and then down his neck. She thinks she will surely lose her mind soon if he will not take what she’s offering him. “The way you look at me, the sound in your voice, these things promise your desire. Yet even as I kiss you and tell you I want you, you would hesitate? Take me to bed, or else I am going to start doubting your sincerity.”

Whatever he hears in her voice and sees in her expression, he doesn’t ask another question, instead claiming her mouth with his own. This time there’s no doubt in her mind about who initiated the kiss. 

His hands move over her body, but there’s so much heavy fabric between them it is barely a light tease. She misses the light gowns with their gauzy fabrics and single layers of Essos, so easily pushed aside, so tantalizing to feel touched through.

He lifts her off the ground, as though it is easy, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her towards the opening to her bedchamber. She stares up at him, overcome with the intensity of her feelings tonight, feelings that when she woke up this morning she would not have said she possessed.

 _How long has this been building?_ she can’t help wondering, but it’s not a question she knows how to answer. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ she decides as Jorah sets her back down, lowering her onto her bed and sitting down beside her. She draws him down into a kiss, hands running through his hair and letting her head fall back as he trails his lips along her jaw, the softness of them contrasting with the scrape of his stubble.

“Khaleesi…” he murmurs into her ear, breath hot and tingling and the way he says that familiar title almost as pleasurable as the press of his body against hers, his arousal noticeable against her thigh even though all the clothing. 

“Say it again,” she demands.

“What?” He pauses, pulling his face back to stare down at her for a moment before hazarding “Khaleesi?”

“Yes...” she groans, one hand at the back of his neck as she moves the other to his backside to pull him harder against her. 

“Khaleesi,” he rumbles, hands slipping up under her fur wrap to cover her breasts through the thick wool of her dress, kissing his way back towards her mouth. “I am yours, Khaleesi.”

She stares up into his eyes, his piercing blue eyes so full of promises. He truly is hers and it sunders her to know suddenly that is what she wants. 

“Damn all these clothes,” she bemoans, as she tries to get her hand under his clothing to touch his skin, but there is, of course, another layer.“They are so incredibly cumbersome.”

“And yet,” Jorah replies with a slow shaky exhale, sliding his hands away from their current position to search for the hooks that hold the fur wrap in place, “slowly unwrapping you like this is more intoxicating than simply having you naked.”

“You don’t want me naked?” she sits up halfway, offended, moving to push up off the bed, but Jorah holds her easily in place, looking at her as though she is already undressed.

“Oh, I want you naked,” he assures her, pressing his knee between her thighs to wedge them apart wide enough for him to slip between them. The shift aligns his body more closely with hers, so that she can feel him not against her hip or thigh but at her core. His evident desire strains against their clothing to press at hers and it is impossible to stay outraged, even before he explains, “but the process of getting you there has its own… eroticism. The slow build of gradually discarding each barrier…”

As he unwraps the fur, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, Daenerys almost understands what he means, though a large part of her is screaming with impatient need, the desire to settle once and for all things between them.

“I would think,” she groans, as his hands move to find still more clasps that need to be undone in order for her to be free of the next layer, “That you would have tired of barriers.”

“I’m a patient man, Khaleesi,” he promises, pressing his forehead to her forehead and rolling his hips with a clear deliberateness. “There are things worth waiting for in this world.”

“Do I strike you as a patient woman?” she groans, tugging his tunic upwards. 

“When you have to be,” he replies, catching her intention and pulling it over his head before going back to his careful opening of her dress.

“And is there a reason I need to be patient now, Ser Jorah?” she asks, moving under him as much to assuage her own longing as to provoke his. “Are you going to make your queen wait?”

“Never,” he rumbles, matching her hip rotations with his own. 

“Then you are still wearing entirely too much clothing, Ser,” she urges, needing to see and feel him more directly.

He stands then, tossing aside his shirt to reveal the broad chest she used to catch glimpses of back in the warmth of Essos, when his shirt would gape open, his chest hair peeking out from where it was half undone. 

As he bends to remove his boots, Daenerys sees just how far the scars from the greyscale removal go, up his shoulder and across towards the center of his back. _Those are my fault_ , she can’t help thinking, not for the first time. She’d known, of course, that there would be scars, not only from battles but from where the greyscale had been, but seeing them is different. She has a sudden urge to rise from the bed and kiss each and every scar he earned in her service, or through her dismissal. Later, she thinks, when they are both sated and lying idly together. That’s when she will map his scars with her hands and lips, taking the time she would never have the patience for right now. 

He pauses after removing his boots, looking at her as if for instruction as to whether to continue, and she raises her eyebrow to indicate that, yes, he’s still too clothed.

His hands move to unbuckle his belt and she thinks about moving to do it for him, about teasing him with her hand as she kisses the knife wound she can see extending past the top of his breeches. 

He moves to unlace his then and she feels her throat go dry, imagining tearing them open with her teeth. She watches the outline of his manhood through the cloth, anticipating the moment when it will spring free. Glancing up she realizes he has noticed the direction of her gaze and they both look back down in unison as he draws his breeches and smallclothes down in one fluid motion. 

As he does, and she catches sight of it at last, the sight is almost enough to let her imagine the sensation of him thrusting into her, and at the same time of wrapping her lips around him. 

As he straightens up, kicking the last of his clothing free, she stares hungrily at his body, strong and scarred, and reaches out and pulls him back down with her. One hand moves his backside and the other reaches to caress his manhood, feeling it pulse in her grip. She can almost feel it inside of her already, caught up in anticipation.

She arches her body as he finishes unclasping the fastenings of her dress and moves to guide it down over her arms, pressing herself against his groin. She sees the raw reaction flash across his eyes, before he moves down her body, dragging the dress off and then moving to work her boots off. His eyes still gaze up at her with an expression that promises he burns just as hotly for her as she is for him in this moment. The air feels cold, with only her shift on the top half of her body, but her skin feels like it is on fire.

After the boots, he skillfully works her leggings down her legs and then her small clothes, leaving her in nothing but a shift. 

“Jorah…” she says, drawing the shift up her legs by gathering it up in her hands, watching his reaction as he gets a clear view between her thighs, as she spreads them further apart at the same time. 

He leans in, beard brushing against her inner thighs and breath hot on her skin and the next thing she knows he’s got his tongue right where she’s throbbing. It’s better than her imagination of it. 

His hands move to her legs, stroking them in time with his tongue and she thinks to herself how many restless, sleepless nights, she wasted fruitlessly when she could have had this. 

“Much more persuasive than words,” she sighs, hands in his hair, body trembling with enjoyment, as he continues to kneel before her and drive thoughts of the rest of the world from her mind. 

In this moment there is nothing but Jorah and the sensation of his hands and mouth on her: stroking, licking, sucking. It is the latter that finally drives her over the edge, arching up off the bed into his mouth and feeling her control of her body slip away.

She thinks she’s done, as she cries out in release, legs shaking, but then he holds her to his mouth as she goes to move away and she finds that was just the beginning of her climax, a shriek escaping her as she flails more wildly in a more intense wave of pleasure.

Even after that, Jorah doesn’t move from between her thighs, licking her more slowly now, letting her shaking recede.

“That,” he murmurs, “Was definitely worth waiting for.” 

“Come here,” she urges, sitting up and tugging at his shoulders, as he moves to resume his attention in the same direction.

He complies, rising to his knees to kneel between her thighs, and she pulls him towards her. His hands caress her through her shift, and it is so much more stimulating than it was through more layers, but what she really wants is to feel his hands directly on her skin.

She rises to her knees as well, shedding that last piece of clothing, watching his eyes devour her, moving her hands back to him. Jorah lets himself be pressed back so he’s sitting on his own heels, lets her guide him where she wants him. His chest makes contact with hers before their hips come together as she straddles him, before she takes him inside of her, feeling him fill her as if that is where he was always meant to be.

That sensation is echoed on Jorah’s face, the way something in it relaxes as she presses down around him, eyes rolling back in his head momentarily, before locking back onto her.

“When I said I needed you…” she groans, trailing off as he presses to the hilt, hands on her hips.

She hadn’t meant this, at least not consciously. She’d been overwhelmed, with so much loss and recovery in such a sort spam. She hadn’t thought through what she meant. She’d just known she couldn’t let him walk away forever again.

She’d demanded a miracle and, unlike with Drogo, she’d been given one.

“I didn’t dare hope-” he gasps, his hands covering her hips, but she doesn’t want to let him finish that though any more than she wanted to finish her own.

Daenerys claims his mouth with hers, pulsing around him, feeling his body all over hers. She’s never felt this close to anyone.

His arms wrap around her, covering her back, as they move together, not far enough to really separate, but enough that when they come back in the other direction it matters.

“Tell me you’re mine,” she hisses against his lips as she squeezes more tightly around him, circling her hips and feeling him press against every part of her. 

“I’m yours,” he groans, meeting her thrust with his own and she rocks within increasing urgency. “Khaleesi.”

She cries out in pleasure, fingers digging into his shoulders as the reality of it is even better than the fantasy.

“I’d do... anything... for you... Khaleesi,” he gasps, one hand still splayed across her back but the other moving to caress the swell of her breast: the nipple is blocked from his hand as it rubs against his chest, but the way his thumb strokes the underside is a revelation as to how much more sensation that area has to give than she previously knew of.

“My Bear…” she moans, reangling her hips so that the mound above her opening stays in contact with his body, the core of her pleasure being rubbed each time they move. 

“I.. worship... you,” he pants, as she takes him harder, needing him with a renewed desperation as she feels her climax building again. 

She’s lost the capacity for words now, reduced to animalistic grunts and moans and shrieking. 

“Kha… lee… si…” he manages, kissing her throat, sucking on a sensitive spot, but it seems a near thing.” 

It’s possible all of Winterfell hears her pleasure, as she peaks around him. Her body convulses and shakes, losing all control. Jorah moves the hand at her breast to her hip, urging her on as she loses the focus to keep riding him, drawing out her release.

She collapses against him, burying her face against his shoulder, whole body tingling with the intensity of her climax.

He lets her rest there, though she can feel him hard and pulsing within her. 

Eventually, she recovers enough to lift her head and look him in the eyes. Her legs are still shaking, but she wraps her arms around Jorah’s neck and starts to move once more anyway, though slowly.

She captures his mouth with her own, kissing him carelessly and deeply, the kind of kiss that can only be given to someone once you have completely let go of any sort of attempt to seem a certain way. She hardly feels as though she has bones she’s so relaxed.

Still, her body manages to move of its own accord and she can feel the catches in his breath, the way he tenses. Jorah is holding back, he has been this whole time, trying not to let go. 

“Come on,” she whispers, moving her mouth to his ear and licking the shell of it, before capturing the lobe between her lips and tugging lightly. “I know you want to give it to me.”

With those last words, she tilts her hips again, just slightly, and Jorah shudders.

“Jorah,” she breathes, raking one hand through his hair as she squeezes with intention around him, “Come for me. I command you to.”

There’s something in his eyes when she says that, the way they sort of glaze over and she can feel him quiver. She tugs on his hair lightly as she sinks back down completely around him and he starts to shake in earnest.

His seed is a hot rush of pleasure and she finds herself drawn into his fulfillment, an echo of it coursing through her body. 

She collapses against his chest: feeling his heart thump against her cheek, the way they are both still trembling. 

Jorah’s hand moves from her hip to the base of her spine, lightly tracing circles there. With the other hand he strokes her hair.

Eventually, her body begins to complain about the way she is resting on her shins, legs bent back over themselves, and she is forced to move, letting him slip from her.

He straightens up, looking between her and his discarded clothes, as though not sure how far this change in their dynamic extends.

“Come under the furs and keep me warm,” she tells him as she pulls them back to nestle herself beneath them, reaching out her arm to him.

She sees him grin in response to the invitation, relaxing a bit more, as he moves to join her. She pushes up onto one elbow, rolling sideways to face him, moving hand through his hair, caressing the side of his face, and kissing him more softly now.

He kisses her back, hand running along the side of her body, from her ribcage down to her hip. Some time passes in this manner, a gentle, directionless, enjoyment of one another.

“A woman could get accustomed to that,” she smiles, placing another small kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Does that mean…” Jorah hesitates, as though he wants to ask something but fears her response.

“You promised to serve me always, Ser,” she points out, trying once again to lighten the mood.

“Khaleesi… Daenerys. I hesitate to ask, but what made you suddenly decide you wanted… me?” 

She can tell it costs him a great deal to ask it, and yet she finds herself reluctant to admit the pique of jealousy that had possessed her at seeing him interact with Sansa.

“If I tell you,” she says, “You have to promise not to mock me about it.”

“I can’t imagine ever mocking anything that brought me my heart’s deepest desire,” he replies with the utmost earnestness.

“I was jealous,” she admits. After all, if he is brave enough to bare his heart to her, surely she can admit to some of her possessiveness when it comes to him.

“Jealous?” he replies incredulously.

“I saw Sansa flirting with you and I nearly lost hold of myself and struck her.”

“You do know that Lady Stark was just being polite, right?” he tells her.

“It didn’t feel that way,” she admits, not sure which one of them is wrong on that front but not actually caring in the moment.

“If I’d known that all it would take for you to invite… or rather command me into your bed was a few insignificant smiles from some other woman, I would have bribed one years ago,” Jorah shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Don’t laugh at me!” she demands, but it comforts her to be reassured that she is his heart’s desire.

“I would never laugh at you, my beloved,” he promises, taking the hand that was on his face in his hands and raising it to his lips, “any laughter is at my own expense.”

“I don’t know that I approve of anyone laughing at your expense, Ser,” she smiles, pressing her forehead to his, “even you.

“Let me make it up to you,” he suggests, moving his hands to support her as he guides her onto her back and begins trailing kisses down her throat, his hands caressing her shoulders and then moving over her breasts, a path his mouth clearly intends to follow.


End file.
